


Square One

by lazarus_girl



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been months since Quinn and Santana’s unexpected hook-up at Mr Schuester’s wedding, and they’re still very much involved. Dependant on each other in the face of constant change, they’re more than happy to keep up their friends-with-benefits arrangement. That is, until growing attraction to other girls in their lives leads Santana to question if they’re doing the right thing.</p><p>
  <em>“Nothing lasts forever. Quinn of all people knows that.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Square One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cobaltsiren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltsiren/gifts).



> Follows canon up to the end of S4. Takes place somewhere between 5x01 and 5x02. Yale referenced throughout. Written for and prompted by the lovely [cobaltsiren](http://cobaltsiren.tumblr.com), who totally appealed to my weakness for character pieces. Essentially, this is just an alternate look at Quinn and Santana post ‘I Do,’ coupled with the burgeoning attraction Santana has for Dani, and the resulting emotional entanglements that creates. This was really fun to write, thanks for the challenge! I hope you like it. Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com), who continues to be my beta extraordinaire in spite of her busy schedule and real-life obligations. Click [here](https://31.media.tumblr.com/f5cbb2668ad1c2d70eca742e5ebf817e/tumblr_n3op35kTiC1txkikoo6_1280.png) to see the face claims of featured secondary characters.

***

 _“Maybe that’s what we look for the in the people we love,_  
 _the spark of unhappiness we think we know how to extinguish."  
_ – Tom Perrota, _Election_.

***

This has to stop; Santana reminds herself, sighing deeply, wide-awake and staring up at the ceiling. It’s still mostly dark out, but she needs to get out of here. Regret as well as cold is beginning to seep into her bones, and it’s nothing to do with the September chill starting to kick in. She needs to end this. Whatever _this_ is. Does having sex with the same person consistently mean you’re in a relationship? If so, she and Quinn appear to be in a relationship. Once, they were a two-time thing. Now, she’s lost count. She glances over at Quinn lying next to her fast asleep. The bedclothes are so tangled; more of her body is exposed than covered, but Santana’s not about to complain. Quinn’s crazy beautiful even when she’s clothed, but naked, she’s even prettier. All girls are, Santana thinks, smiling at Quinn, and feeling a weird twinge of something like fondness despite herself, and the honest-to-God mess of a situation she finds herself in.

Truth be told, she still gets a perverse kick out of sleeping with her. The novelty of being with Quinn isn’t there anymore – that alone carried her for weeks and made her ego grow about fifteen sizes – but it’s been replaced by something else. It’s been replaced by the novelty of teaching her things in bed – Quinn’s a fast learner, eager to please and insatiably curious – and the knowledge that Lucy Quinn Fabray doesn’t _actually_ know everything. Quinn was top of their class at McKinley, the biggest, prettiest fish in the Lima cesspool, frustrated and longing for space. Now, at Yale, she’s a minnow in a crystalline lake, drowning in it; floundering. Maybe that’s why Santana does this, to make Quinn feel better, to bolster her confidence, because God knows she needs some. That could explain a few roll arounds, maybe, but it doesn’t explain why she cashes in vacation days and asks Dani – who makes her workdays at the Spolight infinitely better, and is a whole _other_ source of confusion to her right now – to cover her shifts just so she can come and visit Quinn on a supposed ‘whim.’

A blatant lie, the visits are planned, sometimes in advance (and she’s travelled on the Metro-North so much Quinn should’ve given her the fucking card and not Rachel). This time she dropped in completely unannounced, meeting with a stress-frazzled, entirely unprepared Quinn.

_“What’s up Fabgay?”_

_“That nickname was lame the first time you used it, Santana. It’s just embarrassing now.”_

_“And yet, you smiled, so who’s lamer?”_

Visiting. It sounds nice, adult – cordial as Rachel would say – when she phrases it like that to her, or Dani and Guther, and she always leaves Grand Central with good intentions, telling herself that this time, things will happen differently. That they’ll go to dinner or a café; wander around that vintage clothing store Quinn is always talking about; they’ll go out with Quinn’s Yallie friends (the ones she can tolerate; like Amanda, Beth, and Lauren), that she’ll see more of the campus than Quinn’s dorm room – Quinn’s bed – but it rarely happens. Thankfully, Quinn’s roommate, Lydia, has learned to make herself scarce after walking in on them at the start of the semester. Lydia’s such a sweet, delicate little thing that Santana’s sure she’s been scarred for life. Worse still, Santana had to talk Quinn off the ledge before she had a meltdown about being caught. Luckily, there hasn’t been too much trouble since then. There’s no need for a sock on the door handle, but they have been known to jam a chair under the handle when they know Lydia won’t be back so their ‘sleepovers’ remain private.

Sleepovers haven’t been real sleepovers in Santana’s world for a _very_ long time, and she’s not sure how she feels about that. She doesn’t like to dwell on it too much.

Sweatpants. That’s the root cause of her downfall, today at least. Not those crazy addictive cocktails Kurt’s surprisingly good at making, not the weed they score from this freakishly tall dude, Polish Pete (Piotr, but they’ve never called him that), who lives next door, but _fucking_ J.Crew sweatpants. On a hanger, they look comfy and functional, but on Quinn – resting just so on her hips, paired with a Yale t-shirt, hair in a messy bun, and topped off with paper-writing-induced-stress – they’re just about the sexiest thing Santana’s ever seen.

On some level, she’s kind of disgusted with herself for being so weak. This wasn’t supposed to happen and it definitely wasn’t one of her little training sessions, where she has to turn instructor and tell Quinn what to do while they’re getting naked. It just happened, because they were both there, ridiculously horny – it’s been _weeks_ since Santana was here thanks to work and class scheduling – and nothing shuts up Quinn Fabray and her whining like an unexpectedly filthy kiss on the mouth. It got Santana silence, but it also got her some damn good sex she hadn’t even bargained on.

To her credit, she did make it a whole hour and a half before she cracked. Up until then, they’d managed to chat and eat lunch, behaving like normal friends for once. She commandeered Quinn’s desk chair, while Quinn herself remained on the bed, surrounded by a sea of books. OK, so she brought lunch did a lot of the talking, but it still counts. She was hungry after the train journey and happened to drop by the sandwich place that Quinn likes and got her favourite sub. Quinn was the one who brought up Rachel and Kurt, so naturally, a Bushwick update followed. It was mostly about Kurt’s excessive flirting with the boys at the Spotlight (that got a laugh), and Rachel’s training for her off-Broadway audition that’s reaching military levels of precision (that got a ridiculously sweet smile), and this week’s edition of ‘Could Dani Be Interested or is She Just Being Nice?’ (that got a very knowing look).

Despite the fact she’d hijacked the conversation, Quinn still seemed interested; nodding in all the right places and smiling at her quips, while reading and highlighting everything in existence, so Santana kept talking and trying not to be distracted by how pretty Quinn looked in the light from the late afternoon sun streaming through her dorm window. Then, Quinn had to go and change position, stretching back and revealing an altogether too big expanse of toned stomach in the process. Santana glanced away, embarrassed. She’s spent far too much time kissing and tracing trails down that stomach with her tongue over the last couple of months. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by the need to do it again, right at that very second. Once she acknowledged that silently to herself, things started to shift. Santana felt it in the air; that charge, that unmistakable crackle of energy. She knew she was done for; it was just a matter of when, not if.

Things stepped up a gear when she pressed Quinn on her not-so-secret string of crushes. First, there’s the Associate Professor, Jaime Napier (hot, Santana’s seen her picture on the faculty page), the reason why she’s so been so stressed about this paper at all – Quinn’s trying to pass it off as some expression of sapiosexuality, or something. Santana calls bullshit. Then, there’s Cassie Bradford, (smoking hot, but _painfully_ hipster, so the jury is still out on her gayness) a girl in Quinn’s Cognitive Psychology class who lives on her floor. She’s been batshit crazy about her ever since she arrived at Yale, but she’s too scared to do anything about it – even something as small as accepting her Facebook friend request. The page has been  
has been open on Quinn’s phone for days now, and Santana’s threatened to accept for her, because she knows Quinn is scared, even of something tiny like that. Quinn’s scared of her feelings. She’s scared of her parents, and Frannie, and _fucking_ Rachel of all people. Santana told her she’s being ridiculous, because Rachel wouldn’t care and anyone else who does isn’t worth caring about.

(If only she followed her own advice a lot earlier, especially where Brittany was concerned).

That got Santana to thinking about how much of all Quinn’s issues stem from sex – a little pop psychology, but hey, she isn’t wrong – so she took the opportunity to remind her of the fact that at least ninety percent of her hang-ups and that weirdness with Rachel would disappear if they banged each other. Quinn wasn’t receptive – it got her a classic Fabray death glare for her trouble – but she does stalk Rachel’s Facebook page so often she’d put that little creep Jacob Ben Israel to shame, so Santana knows there’s something to it. OK, so, on reflection, maybe bringing up Rachel wasn’t the smartest move, because it make Quinn push the panic button – a lot like when Brittany used to want to hold hands or kiss in public – but it came out of her mouth before she realised. As did her flippant suggestion that maybe she and Polish Pete should become friends. Quinn said nothing, but the aggressive highlighting spoke volumes. Santana didn’t mean to make fun of her, but it’s just so _easy_.

Then her own panic switch flipped because when Quinn’s that stressed, tears happen, and Santana doesn’t really do tears well, especially when girls are doing the crying. One moment she was dealing with said imminent tears, tossing aside a sea of textbooks to pry the neon pink highlighter from Quinn’s hand, and the next, she was grabbing Quinn’s face instead, kissing her hard and fast, desperate to calm her. All it took was one glance from Quinn, breathlessly regarding Santana between one kiss and the next as she shrugged out of her jacket, and they both knew she’d struggle to make it home before the graveyard shift at the Spotlight. Trucker Hank and his breakfast pancakes soundtracked to her famed spin Emmylou Harris would have to wait.

It escalated quickly, Santana embarrassingly eager as she scrambled onto the bed, kneeling behind Quinn, latching on to her neck and attacking it with her mouth, certain to leave a mark. Quinn leant back into her touch, angling her neck to give Santana more room, and grasping for purchase on Santana’s jeans. The tells were all there. Quinn wanted this as much as she did. Within seconds, Santana could feel the tension in her and Quinn both disappearing. The moment her hands landed on Quinn’s breasts, covered only by the thin material of her t-shirt, Santana groaned, never gladder she endured the train journey. Quinn rarely went braless, even when they had nothing but sex planned (and that happened once or twice early on). Desire spiked low in her belly, and it made her palm and squeeze them more roughly than usual. Her hands didn’t stay there for long, dipping ungraciously under the waistband of Quinn’s sweatpants, meeting with nothing but slick heat, because she wasn’t wearing any underwear either.

_“Oh, someone was ready for my visit after all …”_

After that, everything is pretty much a blur of them tearing off each other’s clothes, kissing, and touching every inch of skin they could reach. It was nowhere as smooth or practiced as it should’ve been, given how many times they’ve done this, and the smug smile that spread across Quinn’s face when she realised just how hard she made Santana come – that look will probably stay with Santana forever, and not entirely for the right reasons. Somewhere along the line – and not just because she’s an excellent teacher, even if she does say so herself – Quinn’s gotten incredibly good at going down on her. The time for gentle encouragement has long since passed, and instead, Santana’s left breathless and begging for it, legs lewdly spread, Quinn settled in between them and working her over like she’s born for it.

_“Yes, that’s it. Right there ….”_

_“Harder … harder. Yeah. Just like that …_

_“Oh fuck … Don’t stop … Please don’t stop, Quinn … Please …”_

Who knew miss goody-goody would turn out to be so amazing in bed?

“And here we are,” Santana mutters to herself quietly, rolling on to her side, half expecting to find Quinn wide awake too.

Fortunately, she’s still asleep and blissfully unaware of everything Santana’s been turning over in her mind. Unfortunately, Santana still has to find a way of telling Quinn everything without coming off like the biggest bitch in existence. She quickly realises that it’s impossible. She doesn’t have a lot of options right now, the only thing she can do is move, so there’s a more respectable distance between her and Quinn. Shuffling back carefully, suddenly conscious of her nakedness, she presses right back into the wall – the bed feels even smaller than it already was – watching Quinn all the while for any flicker of movement. Staying as they were, partly entangled, feels too close, too intimate, when she’s thinking things like this. It seems like a bigger betrayal to be contemplating anything but staying as they are.

There’s no easy way out of this. She just has to rip the Band-Aid off, as they say.

So, she starts the peeling process.

“Hey, Q,” she starts softly, reaching to brush Quinn’s hair from where it’s fallen across her face. “I gotta get going.”

Quinn doesn’t move an inch.

“How long have you been creepily staring at me?” she murmurs, sleepily, eyes still closed.

“A creepy few minutes,” Santana shrugs, trying to sound like she’s not thrown by all of this. “Anyway, you were faking,” she swats at Quinn’s arm playfully.

“I was not!” Quinn protests, stifling a yawn. “I suppose I should be honoured you told me you were leaving. Post-Its are bad etiquette you know.”

“Well, Q, can’t say you didn’t know what you were getting into,” she shrugs. “What I lack in social grace I make up for with sexual prowess. That’s not a bad trade off.”

“True,” Quinn laughs, low and sultry, turning to face her. “I have no complaints. Your blemish-free record remains intact.”

Outwardly, Santana smirks, playing along; seeing the invisible scoreboard above her head tallying points as they talk. Inwardly, she’s anxious, feeling cornered, but not, because this is how they always are: witty banter, insults, and _definitely_ no strings. Except, there are strings, and they’re tangled and messy and no one’s brave enough to break out the scissors.

“C’mere,” Quinn drawls, reaching for her. “You have time for our traditional goodbye or is New York calling too loudly?”

What Quinn really means is ‘Is the pull toward Dani too strong?’

Maybe.

Santana can’t. She just can’t tell her. Not now. Not yet. Not the way Quinn is looking at her, with this sexy little smile, eyes full of want. Somehow, all this is still kind of cute too because they’ve acquired all these weird little rituals like making out in bed for twenty minutes before either of them moves, and then doing it again when she lingers by the door because they don’t do public displays of affection or teary goodbyes at the station. They aren’t _that_ sappy and pathetic. What does another kiss, another few minutes, matter? Everyone wants their goodbye to feel right. She can do this at least before she brings it all to a grinding halt for the sake of some feelings that may or may not be returned. OK, so it’s more like they’re drawing a line under things, but Santana wants that line to feel permanent. Nothing lasts forever. Quinn of all people knows that.

“There’s always time for goodbye,” Santana smiles, genuinely, moving closer. “One bat of my lashes,” she starts, barely pressing her lips to Quinn’s. “And Gunther forgives me anything,” she continues, rolling on top of Quinn, straddling her, fingertips tracing her face.

“Anything?” Quinn asks, trading another soft kiss.

“Pretty much,” Santana nods, her mouth hovering near Quinn’s, teetering on the edge of the real kiss Quinn’s after.

One. Two. Three.

The moment their lips touch, Quinn groans with relief, her arms sliding around Santana’s waist, pulling her closer. For a while, they stay like that, kissing and kissing; deep and slow with a gentleness they’ve never had before. Maybe Quinn knows that this is the last of it, slipping through their fingers. Quinn’s hands start to roam, going under the bedclothes and grabbing her ass, pressing their bodies flush.

“Quinn,” Santana starts, torn between wanting to keep kissing her forever or stop like she should. “Quinn,” she repeats, still kissing her anyway. Finally, she finds the resolve. “We gotta take the training wheels off this thing,” she continues, breathlessly, punctuating her words with quick kisses.

Quinn pulls her closer, holds her tighter. “I know,” she replies, quiet and simple.

She knew. She always knew.

Santana pulls away, stroking Quinn’s cheek. “Always had an expiration date, right?”

“Right,” she nods, a telltale waver in her voice, before she adds, with the faintest trace of sadness, “It’s because of Dani, isn’t it? You like her too much.”

All Santana can do is nod. There’s no point wasting words.

With a sigh, she rolls off of Quinn and lies back next to her. She really didn’t mean for this to get so damn complicated and snowball into such a huge deal, but she figures that’s what she gets by sleeping with her friends. Are they even still friends anymore? She doesn’t know, and she’s not sure how Quinn will take this. No one likes getting their security blanket yanked away, and it’s equally hard when they’re both clinging on to keep it. She is, if she’s honest, because it’s easy and fun and there’s nothing like the label of ‘girlfriend,’ or all the extra emotional baggage and expectations that come with it. Except, she’d really like to have a girlfriend, and she’d like it even more if that girlfriend turned out to be Dani. Danielle Fraser is insanely cute, but she’s also the queen of mixed signals. Santana never knows where she stands.

Thoughts like that bring her out in hives and send her zigzagging back and forth along the Metro-North right into Quinn’s arms.

Maybe Santana needs her head checked, because on the rare occasions she’s hooked with another girl – soft targets mostly, pretty little college co-eds, craving some excitement or some hot girl in an anonymous nightclub bathroom – no one else managed to hit the right spot. Literally. And here she is wilfully giving that away? Sure, she trained Quinn up so she could pass Lesbian Sex 101 with flying colours, but, stupidly, she also tailored that training entirely to her own liking, so until she actually lets someone get to know her just as well, she’s doomed a life of unsatisfying orgasms or a lot of time alone with back issues of Maxim and her left hand.

“I’m glad you finally thought she was worth taking the risk for,” Quinn smiles, but it’s sad. So incredibly sad. Santana’s heart sinks. “I wish I was ready to do that too.”

“Hey, hey,” Santana says, softly. “You are. You’re so ready for this Quinn. All you need to do is take that first little step. I get it. I do. It’s …” she trails off, searching for the right words.

“Terrifying?” Quinn overlaps, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Yeah. I mean,” Santana sits up, pulling the bedclothes around herself, hugging her knees, Quinn mirroring her. For some reason, the truth is tumbling out of her mouth far too easily. “I’m the only girl you’ve ever been with or you’ve ever been attracted to and feeling all that stuff for someone else is crazy. I felt it with Britt. I feel it any time I’m with someone new. Everyone feels like that. There’s no fucking manual, Q. There’s no international handshake so you know every cute girl you want to be gay actually will be,” she pauses, feeling herself growing hot, fixing her eyes on Quinn’s bookshelf and reading across the titles – Whitman, Winterson, Woolf – “It’s no different just because they’re girls. They’ll break your heart and treat you like shit, but you have to try.”

Suddenly, Santana realises she’s not just talking to Quinn anymore; she’s talking to herself too. She blinks back tears that are threatening to fall.

“I just want you to be happy, Quinn. For once in your life,” she admits, finally able to look at Quinn for the first time.

“I want you to be happy too, Santana. You deserve it.”

Santana closes the distance between the two of them, and kisses Quinn again. This time, it’s different. It’s gentle and tender. A first kiss and a last kiss all at once. It lingers, much longer than it should, and Quinn takes even longer to open her eyes. Santana waits, because she has more to say. Things she’s been scared to admit, always on the tip of her tongue, but today is turning into the day she gives them a voice.

“You’re smart, you’re gorgeous, and even though you’re ridiculously highly strung, you’re also ridiculously good in bed. You have nothing to worry about. I promise.”

“Really?” Quinn replies, quiet and disbelieving.

“Really. You were taught by the best, after all,” she smiles smugly and Quinn rolls her eyes dramatically. “Seriously, you’re at Yale, Britt’s at MIT, and I’m the singing diner waitress whose only claim to fame is a _fucking_ Yeast-I-Stat commercial, if anyone should be worried, it’s me,” she laughs emptily.

“Santana,” is all Quinn says, placing her hand over Santana’s.

Santana motions to the phone on Quinn’s nightstand, ignoring the gesture. “Accept her friend request. Do it. Do it now,” she encourages, swiftly changing the subject.

“I can’t.” Quinn protests, shaking her head. “I just … I can’t.”

“You can!” Santana counters, reaching across to grab it.

“Santana!” Quinn squeals.

“Quinn!” Santana singsongs, scrambling across the bed and holding it out of Quinn’s reach and tapping buttons furiously. “There. Done. Cupid’s arrow can fly,” she grins giving a little twirl and tossing the phone back to her.

“Why did you do that? Oh my God, I hate you! I’m gonna call Dani and tell her everything you’ve ever said about how ‘cute’ and ‘hot’ she is! Where the fuck is your phone?!”

Quinn’s still talking in that same high screechy little voice, all wide-eyed and panicked, thrashing around and picking through the pile of Santana’s clothes on the floor. It’s equal parts hilarious and adorable. Santana’s pretty sure she makes the same face any time Rachel threatens to set her up on a date with Dani.

“Because you never would, Q,” Santana smiles softly, pecking Quinn on the cheek. “If she breaks you heart, I’ll end her. Seriously,” she continues, as she pulls on her underwear, snatching her jeans from Quinn’s grasp with a flourish.

“And normal service has resumed,” Quinn deadpans, throwing back the bedclothes and swinging her legs out to sit on the edge of her bed. “You’re threatening violence!”

“Only because I love you, Fabgay!” she winks, hopping up and down to pull on her jeans.

She does love Quinn. She always loved her. She probably always will. They’ve been friends for so long and been through so much that it couldn’t be any other way. It’s just not the hearts, flowers, soulmates kind of love like it was with Brittany. It’s not the affection and warmth she feels now that she and Rachel are now actually friends. It’s none of those things and all of those things. They’re Quinn and Santana, and no one else quite gets it.

“I love you more,” Quinn replies, in all seriousness. They look at each other for what feels like a long time. “Here,” she starts, climbing out of bed and pulling back on her shirt. “Borrow something, can’t have you showing up to work in the same clothes you left in,” she continues, opening her wardrobe and surveying the rail. “What would Dani think?”

“Thanks mom!” Santana smirks.

“Fuck you!” Quinn laughs.

“Really, it’s cute you care about me having to do the walk of shame at work.”

“I just wanted to give Rachel something to obsess over,” Quinn chuckles.

“You two are ridiculous!” Santana smiles.

“She thrives on gossip, Santana. How can I deny her?”

“God,” Santana exclaims. “If she found out about this, she’d have a fucking heart attack.”

“Oh, trust me. I know,” Quinn replies, sadly.

Boots laced, she moves to stand behind her, wrapping her arms around Quinn’s waist out of sheer habit. Back in Lima, everything she wore used to be floral, flouncy, preppy – or briefly during her punk phase, surprisingly hot – but now, in New Haven, settled and happy in college, she’s having a huge hipster phase. It’s everywhere in New York, so Santana’s kind of sick of it, but Quinn works it so well, she can’t really complain, and hey, maybe she could rock it too.

“Best secret ever, right?” Santana quirks an eyebrow, hoping her tone is light enough. She can sense Quinn is panicking again, so she gives her ass – barely covered by the Yale shirt – a playful squeeze.

“Hey!” Quinn swats her hand away and Santana holds both of her own up in defence.

Though she returns to her task just as seriously as before, Santana can see she’s smiling.

“This one,” Quinn announces, turning around and placing a shirt against her. “Dani will love it.”

It’s Quinn’s favourite shirt. Plaid. Black and pink, just the right kind of fitted. She looks amazing in it.

“Are you sure?” Santana asks.

“Absolutely. You can carry it off better than me,” she declares with a rare flash of modesty.

Before Santana can protest, Quinn’s putting it on for her, pulling her arms through and even doing up the buttons and tweaking it so it fits right. For a moment, they both stand and look at each other in the mirror opposite. They smile, but it looks different to every other time. It reminds her of when they stood in Quinn’s room with Brittany helping her pack for Yale. The same kind of sadness is leeching out.

“That looks good!” Santana declares, more than a little surprised, smoothing down he hair as she scrutinises her reflection. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Quinn replies, almost bashful. Then, she leans up and kisses Santana on the cheek. “It’s been fun … Thank you.”

“Well, if you ever need another booty call, Q. You know where I am,” Santana remarks, with a smirk.

“Santana,” Quinn puffs out an annoyed breath as they move toward the door, “We both know it’s more than that.”

“We do,” Santana swallows hard, feeling tears sting again. She will _not_ cry. “I’ll always be there for you, you know that right? Don’t go all MIA on me now, OK?” she asks, lifting Lydia’s chair from its usual spot jammed under the door handle.

“I wont. I promise,” Quinn shakes her head, smiling.

“And you’ll come back to New York, check out Dani? I mean, you gotta come back and get this right? Maybe Cassie can come along. Hell, even bring little flowerchild Lydia!” she smiles, imagining how much Kurt will freak out, and then she’s not so happy anymore, adding “Everyone misses you.”

It’s not a lie. They do. Quinn’s basically exiled herself here because she can’t make Lima Quinn and New Haven Quinn work. She thinks she can’t be herself around anyone but Santana, and that’s just sad.

Quinn just looks at her, rueful for split-second before answering. “Yes, I will, and don’t get your hopes up!” she replies, shoving Santana’s jacket and bag to her chest.

Quinn is practically glowing red with embarrassment now. It’s sweet, kind of nauseatingly so, but she doesn’t have the heart to rain on Quinn’s parade right now.

“Now go, you’ll miss your train. Again. Call me when you get back,” Quinn exclaims, pushing Santana out the door when the silence between them stretches out uncomfortably.

“Don’t become a full-on Yallie and forget us, right?” Santana declares, still lingering in the doorway as she puts on her jacket, loathe to leave.

Eventually, she starts to walk down the hallway, still waiting for something else from Quinn: more words, another kiss or one of those clichéd spinning hugs people have in movies. Anything really, and she’s not sure why. Somewhere it feels like a chord, long overstretched in the miles between them, is being cut.

“Never. Go!” Quinn calls, leaning out of her room cautiously and shooing Santana away with a wave of her hand.

Santana turns on her heels and points for emphasis when she yells back. “Talk to Cassie!”

Even though she’s pretty far away now, she sees Quinn’s eyes go wide, everything about her screams ‘shut the fuck up.’

“Talk to Dani!”

“You got yourself a deal, sugar!” she calls, dramatically, grinning at her. “I want updates, you hear me, Fabray?”

Quinn finally leaves her dorm, painfully self-conscious as she nods enthusiastically in an attempt to shut her down. Santana’s smile widens, and they wave at each other needlessly in lieu of saying a final goodbye. Santana blows her one last kiss before turning her back and heading for the exit.

Buoyed, her steps are quicker and lighter, moving easily through the small bottleneck of students trailing into the dorm. She holds the door open for six people longer than she usually would. The last is a girl, a really pretty girl, so she hangs back out of a little more than politeness. It’s only when the girl gets closer that Santana realises who it is. It’s not just any pretty girl; it’s Cassie, Quinn’s Cassie, wearing her trademark beret. Santana leans against the door, back pressed to the glass, counting off the seconds to when Cassie will turn around for a second look. They always do. When it happens, Santana can’t resist a winking at her. Like Santana knew she would, Cassie blushes, biting on her lip. Quinn has nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

Just as Santana strides off into the night, her phone vibrates in her jacket pocket. She takes it out, checking the screen, and Dani’s number greets her. She takes it as a good omen.

“Hey, I was just thinking about you …” she purrs, playful, smiling at the sound of Dani’s voice on the line; warm and husky.

_“How's Yale treating you?”_

“I feel like my IQ points raised ... exponentially ...”

_“Exponentially? Oh, you’re too fancy to hang out with me now, Lopez.”_

“I could make an exception for you. Maybe.”

_“I’m touched you can find it in yourself to be so charitable.”_

“I know. It’s tough being so benevolent. It’s that kind of attitude that keeps me from murdering Rachel in her sleep. Did you kill her yet?”

_“Tempting, but no. I’ve managed to fight the urge.”_

“Impressive,” Santana laughs, feeling giddy and nervous in way she hasn’t been for the longest time.

She’s lost her way now, turning in circles, with no real idea how to get to the station, but she doesn’t care. She just wants to keep talking to Dani, hoping that Quinn and Cassie have somehow crossed paths back at the dorm. It’s exciting, it’s freeing, to have no idea about what to do next and be OK with that. It makes her brave. Too brave. Before she realizes, the question she’s been so terrified of asking just falls out of her mouth.

“Do you want to go out sometime? There’s this place, Callbacks, it’s a karaoke bar.”

_“I’d love to.”_

“There are tons of NYADA kids there, but the cocktails are good and you rarely get carded so –” Suddenly, Santana stops dead. Dani’s reply finally registers. She said yes. She. Said. Yes.

“Really?” she asks, stupidly, her voice suddenly ten times higher normal.

_“Really … So, are you asking me on a group date so you have an out if you think I'm serial killer material, or are you testing if I'm open to a threesome with Rachel?”_

“No. Yes. No. What?!” Santana squeaks out, stumbling over her words, utterly thrown.

Dani chuckles on the line. It makes Santana’s heart flutter, and she presses a hand to her chest to try and stop it. That hasn’t happened in a long time either.

_“Relax. I'm kidding. Maybe. I can't be a serial killer, I'm a pacifist.”_

“Good to know I’ll survive the date.”

Dani laughs, genuinely, loudly, at her lame reply, and even though she’s mortified, Santana’s still smiling too, possibly idiotically, as she picks up speed, heading across the campus quicker than she ever has before, ignoring all the other students still wandering around and the weird looks they’re giving her. Instead, she focuses on Dani, listening to her carry on talking and then Rachel calling out a hello from across the diner. She doesn’t know how the rest of this conversation will go, or even if this date will actually work out, but she does know this: she’ll be fine too, just like Quinn. They’re both back at square one. Even if they get their hearts broken, they’ll be able to put them back together again. They’re survivors. Just like Quinn, all she needs to do is try. All she needs is to be brave enough to take that very first step into the unknown all over again. Right now, it feels more like a leap than a step, but for once she feels ready enough to take it.


End file.
